Stone
by Sparkly Faerie
Summary: Oneshot. You're not that kind of girl. You know, the one who goes around snogging blokes in the fifth floor corridor on a Sunday afternoon. Particularly ones you aren't even dating. And you really should put a stop to this. JPLE


**Hmm… yeah… I dunno.**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with it. All rights to Harry Potter and affiliated products belong to Ms J.K. Rowling and the other proper entities.

**Summary:** You're not _that_ kind of girl. You know, the one who goes around snogging blokes in the fifth floor corridor on a Sunday afternoon. Particularly ones you aren't even dating. And you really should put a stop to this.

**Rating:** T

**Genre:** Romance

**Warnings:** None.

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><p><strong>Stone<strong>

Your back is against the cold stone of the wall, but you can hardly bring yourself to care.

It's hard to care about anything when there's a warm body pushed against you, and the mouth attached to said body has fixed itself to your own. It's hard to even _think_ when there's a foreign tongue in your mouth, and hands are tangled in your hair and arms are wrapped around your waist, holding you possessively.

You're not _that_ kind of girl. You know, the one who goes around snogging blokes in the fifth floor corridor on a Sunday afternoon while everyone else is in Hogsmeade. Particularly ones you aren't even dating. And you really should put a stop to this _and you will as soon as he lets you up to breathe_, _you swear_.

One of you makes a sound—you or him, you're not sure which—and you pull your mouth away from his, ready to tell him off. Really, who does he think he is? He has no business ambushing you and pushing you up against walls and snogging you to the point where you're breathing so hard you fog up his glasses. None at all.

"Potter," you manage to say. Except, it's not the scathing tone you envisioned. No, it's more like a breathy moan as his lips start wandering to your neck and start to wreak their havoc there. His afternoon stubble is alarmingly pleasant against your skin, and you can't, for the life of you, figure out why.

It's lucky, really, that the stone walls are so cool. Your body feels like it's going to spontaneously combust any second, and his proximity is really not helping. A draught of warm breath sends your collarbone erupting into goose bumps, and you giggle at the sensation of him breathing in your ear.

Your arms, you only just now realise, are wrapped around his neck (one of your hands is even in his _hair!_), holding you to him. He's mouthing your neck again, and you realise that, yes, you're enjoying this and _that is going to leave a mark_.

"Stop," you breathe in a decidedly weak voice. Where is the confident, assertive, collected Lily Evans of two minutes ago? Surely she hadn't vacated the premises before this… this _attack_?

He makes a noise in the negative and then decides that maybe he should occupy your mouth to prevent you from repeating the order. You try to convince your arms that, as swell as it might be from up there, wrapped around his neck, they really need to come back down to their normal elevation and assist you in getting James Potter _off you_. Except they very much like it where they are, thank you very much, and have no desire to move.

You resign yourself. There's really no getting out of this and you know it. And you mentally squish that little voice in the back of your mind that says you _don't_ want to stop this, because you _do_ and as soon as you get a chance you are going to slap him silly and walk away.

(Provided your legs are steadier at that point in time.)

The hand tangled in your hair shifts your head, and the arm around your waist moves. Now there's not an inch of negative space between you.

One of your arms—the one _not_ in his hair—slips down from his neck and settles on his bicep. And, you think, you could get used to this.

Not being attacked in corridors. Not by any stretch of the imagination would you ever get used to _that_. But this? Snogging James Potter? It's really not so bad.

Actually, it's rather fun.

And then he's gone. He's letting you go and he's stepping back, and you're wrenching your eyes open and staring at him shamelessly. Now that your arms have completely dropped from his person, the only thing you can think of to do with them is brace them against the wall, because you feel like you might fall over. Your knees still aren't any steadier than they were a moment ago.

Hazel eyes are searching your face. You know that look in them. It's not one that you see _often_, but you know it nonetheless. He's worried about what you're going to do.

"Hogsmeade, next weekend?" You hear yourself say in a somewhat strained voice. _Shut up, mouth, shut up!_ "Brill. I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall after breakfast."

He only manages a stupefied nod as you mechanically reach down and reclaim your bag. And then you're walking away.

You make it down two corridors and a flight of stairs before you sag against yet another stone wall and touch your fingers to your lips, grinning like a loon.

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><p><strong>So I've read a lot of these kinds of fics lately and wanted to try my own. Judge away. Lol.<strong>

**Please review and let me know what you think.**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Sparkly Faerie**


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